


5.21 Trust Is What You Earn

by William_Easley



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Apolotgy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Friendship, PTSD, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21511708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/William_Easley/pseuds/William_Easley
Summary: August, 2017: Three short stories of relationships and attitudes, loosely linked by the subject of trust.
Relationships: Mabel Pines/"Teek" O'Grady (OC), Wendy Corduroy/Dipper Pines
Kudos: 14





	1. Off the Coast of Alaska

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the show GRAVITY FALLS or any of the characters. They are the property of the show creator, Alex Hirsh, and of the Walt Disney Company. I make no money from these stories and write just for my own pleasure and in the hope that other readers might enjoy them.

**Trust Is What You Earn**

**By William Easley**

**(August 2, 2017)**

* * *

**1: Off the Coast of Alaska**

The third day of the cruise found the _Northstar Queen_ off the coast of Yakobi Island, about to make the starboard turn to thread its way into Juneau. The Northwest family would spend three days there, including an excursion into Taku Inlet, a scenic fjord.

But at the moment the ship was at sea, some miles off the coast—Alaska was only a dim, slightly jagged blue line on the eastern horizon, with the sun coming up behind it—and a cold wind gusted in off the wide Pacific, driving gray clouds across the sky.

With her back to the blustery breeze, huddled in her warm coat, Pacifica Northwest stood alone on the starboard side of the bow, gazing across the rail and out over the choppy water toward Alaska, and feeling . . . well, if not elated, not sad. Feeling more . . even. That in itself was something of an accomplishment for a Northwest.

It had been a summer of revelations and small surprises. Her father had cut way back on his workload, turning over the day-to-day operation of his main businesses to a team of executives. He remained as Chairman of the Board of Northwest Enterprises, though, and spent two days a week in the office. For four of the other seven days, he was sure to be on the telephone or computer for at least two hours, communicating with his team. Pacifica knew that he had astonished them when he announced that he was stepping down from being the president of, what? Six different big businesses under the umbrella of Northwest Enterprises? She'd lost count.

For old times' sake, Preston had announced his decision to the top-level managers in the big meeting room of the mud flap factory—the first business his own father had put him in charge of, and with its innovations, still the top earner of them all. The men and women sitting at the conference table looked ill at ease, in the long room, harshly illuminated by bare fluorescents, with the scent of synthetic rubber strong in the air, but as always, they listened with close attention to the boss. Priscilla had shown Pacifica the recording of the event.

"In taking this step, I am going to charge you with one principle," Northwest had told the assembled officers and board members. "Put stewardship ahead of profits. Some of you look shocked. Believe me, the realization that we need to do that came as a shock to me. When a man reaches middle life, he begins to ponder the meaning of things. And a family crisis taught me that being there for my wife and daughter, being aware of the hurt that profit-gouging can cause not only our clients but the public and, yes, our own employees—that these far outweigh the pursuit of money for its own sake."

He smiled. "Don't misread me and run the businesses into the ground. But give good value for the money, stand behind our products and services, be considerate of the public on whom we depend, and take care of the environment we have to preserve if we are to survive as a business and perhaps as a species. We'll no longer concentrate just on profits. Trust is what we want to earn."

Pacifica had heard much the same thing before, and frankly, she doubted Preston's sincerity, or at least his ability to follow through—she'd seen her father reform before and then slip back into his old ways. This time, however, it had been different.

Away from the office, Preston had become more relaxed, as if he'd shed a heavy burden. Several times over the summer, they had gone riding together, Preston, Priscilla, and Pacifica, with Pacifica mounted on her own favorite pony, Diablo, and her parents riding two matched thoroughbred geldings. Long leisurely rides through the open country around Gravity Falls, talking and laughing together. Long conversations, silly or serious, as they rested or walked their horses along.

As they headed back toward the barn on one gorgeous summer day, out of nowhere Preston had asked, "What do you want, Pacifica?"

The amazing thing was not that Preston had asked the question—more than once—but that he had listened when she spoke.

It was like chunking away layers of coal and exposing an unexpected diamond. She discovered humor in her father, and a concerned interest, a regretful sort of love—so many years she had felt like a decoration that Preston Northwest trotted out for his clients and associates, to be put back into the cabinet and ignored until the next social occasion. Now, listening to him, glancing sideways to see his face, she sensed that a sea change had indeed taken place.

All that summer, Priscilla had been seeing a therapist. One day she had their butler, Wellington, take every drop of alcohol out of the house—even cooking sherry—and since then she had managed without even a social glass of wine. It was a struggle that sometimes left her pale, sweaty, and trembling, but she fought her way through the cravings.

She had stopped coloring her hair, though she kept it styled, and the streaks of gray, Pacifica thought, made her look not matronly but almost regal. Her smile had lost the rigid, mask-like quality and had become more relaxed and normal. It still bore a hint of sadness—years of tension and worry could not be exorcised in one summer or even in one year—but it was far more natural.

_What do I want?_

On the horseback ride, she had been flippant: "I want a handsome rich guy to spirit me away to his castle and adore me for the rest of my life."

Instantly she had regretted saying that. Priscilla visibly winced.

_No, really. What do I want?_

Her father had dropped the question then. However, he had raised it once more, on the ship, on the second day of their eight-day cruise. The afternoon before, as they all sat on the deck under a sky crowded with puffy white clouds, with the vast ocean all around, blue and gray and silver, Preston and Priscilla had asked her—seriously this time—what she wanted to do with her life.

She'd been thinking about that. Pacifica took a deep breath. "I want to study journalism," she said.

"Truly?" Priscilla asked. "You want to be a newscaster, or—"

"I want to be a real reporter," Pacifica said, not daring to look at them for fear she might see disappointment in their expressions. "Probably not for the newspapers—they're fading out. But I want to research real stories, stories that are important to people, find the truth, and report it."

When her parents didn't reply, she said haltingly, "I've been told lies—I'm sorry, but you know I have—and I've told myself lies for so long—I want to get at the truth. They say the truth can make you free. I want to find something true, something real, and let people know about it. I know that's probably silly."

For a few moments more the silence went on. And then in a soft, hoarse voice, Preston said simply, "Do it. You've got it in you. Follow that star, Pacifica. Don't worry about disappointing us. You won't. Now, listen, if the college you've picked out isn't adequate, tell us which one is the best in the nation."

"Northwestern," Pacifica said at once. She bit her lip and then added, "In Illinois."

"So far away?" Priscilla asked.

Preston put his hand on his wife's wrist. "I know of that university. Its school of journalism has a good name," he said with a sudden unexpected grin. It transformed his whole face. He was really a handsome man, when not looking stony and forbidding. "Very well, Pacifica. You can come home for every holiday, and would you object to our visiting you there perhaps twice a term?"

Pacifica shook her head. "No. Not at all. But listen, I don't want to go there this fall. It's a big step, and I've already been accepted to Angeli, and I don't know how well I'll do in college. I thought maybe I'd do my freshman year here—at Angeli, back in Oregon, I mean—and then transfer to Northwestern for my sophomore year—if my grades are good enough."

"I'm not worried about that," Preston said.

"I am," Pacifica admitted. "I've had kind of a rotten record at making decisions. I'll try to be better at that. Mabel Pines—" she sighed. "God, I feel so bad about how I used to treat her. She's turned out to be such a good friend. I know she's not in our class—"

"I'd say she was a cut above us," Preston said, sounding sincere. "She and her family saved your life when never-mind-all-that was going on. And they reunited us. I'll forever owe them a debt of gratitude for that."

Pacifica smiled self-consciously. "Well, yeah, but you know she can come across as sort of, uh—"

"Frivolous," Priscilla suggested.

"Goofy," Pacifica said. And then she found she was opening up, the words rushing out: "And she is. She has this offbeat sense of humor, but—I'm tearing up." She gulped. "She's—she's not judgmental, and she's quick to forgive, and—she's talked to me about college and guys and all sorts of stuff. And, God, I wish I could be as optimistic as she is. Anyhow, I was saying, Mabel's been so encouraging. She's going to college at the Olmsted College of Arts down in California near Crescent City. Angeli's south of Eugene, so not all that far away from Olmsted. Mabel's already suggested we get together often."

"You'll make other friends at college," Preston reassured his daughter. "You're very likeable."

"But new friends aren't the same as ones that have known you for years and years," Pacifica said. "I just wanted to say—some weekends I won't come home, all right? Because Mabel and I will be out somewhere laughing and doing silly stuff and—and just having a good time. I don't mean partying and all that, just—just hanging, you know? And talking about life and all sorts of things."

"I'm glad you have a friend like her," Priscilla said. "Of course we understand. You're not our little girl any longer—but you'll always be our daughter."

Then, again unexpectedly, Preston asked his wife and daughter, "Walk with me."

They went to the stern of the lowest deck. They were the only passengers there. The big cruise ship sketched out a long wake on the dark water, and the sun, sinking into the Pacific off to the right, made the caps on the waves golden.

Preston reached into his jacket and brought out a little bell.

"You recognize this?" he asked.

Pacifica had frozen, her blue eyes wide, almost wild. She swallowed hard and nodded.

"I took out the clapper," Preston said, jiggling but not jingling the bell. "I knew you'd never want to hear it again. This bell is silver. It's about two hundred years old. My great-grandfather used it to train and manage his servants. He rarely spoke to them, unless to fire them. One ring summoned the nearest servant. Two rings meant 'Perform your duties.' The cook would begin the meal, the valet would dress him, the chauffeur would get the buggy or the horseless carriage ready. Three rings meant 'You are dismissed.'"

"I didn't know any of that," Pacifica whispered.

"Later, my grandfather used it the same way. And he also used it to . . . well, to control my father. Do you understand?

Pacifica nodded. She understood all too well.

Preston took a deep breath, his eyes on the bell. "My father," he said quietly, and then closed his eyes. "My father used the bell to train me. Whenever I put a toe out of line, he rang it. He reminded me to be a Northwest. To be . . . just like him. And so, when I had a child of my own—God forgive me. I'm so sorry, Pacifica. I should have known better."

Pacifica blinked against tears. "Yes," she whispered.

Preston flourished the bell. "Damn it." He sounded as if he meant that literally. "And damn me for a cruel, thoughtless fool. Pacifica, I'm sorry. I don't know why—my father raised me so very strictly. I always fell short of pleasing him. I know how that made me feel, and with you—I should have known better. I didn't."

He handed her the bell. She felt as if her fingers holding it were numb. Her breath came short, verging on panic.

"Throw it into the ocean," Preston said.

"I—I don't know if—if I can," Pacifica said. It terrified her, as if she were holding a rattlesnake.

She felt her father's hand on one shoulder, her mother's on the other. "Get rid of it," Priscilla said.

"Throw it hard. Throw it as far as you can," Preston said.

Taking a deep breath, feeling dizzy, Pacifica drew back and threw overhand. The bell arced over the rail and tumbled through the air, flashing in the setting sun, and hit the ocean. They could not see the splash—the wake accepted the silver and swallowed it.

And the bell was gone.

Pacifica stared at the sea.

"You won't have to worry about that anymore," Preston said. "Please trust us. Trust me."

She nodded, too full of emotion to speak.

The next morning, she stood at the bow, not the stern. She looked ahead, not behind. And the sun was rising, and she hoped, she prayed, that this would be the first of many, many good days.


	2. Gravity Falls, Oregon

**Trust Is What You Earn**

**(August 2, 2017)**

* * *

**2: Gravity Falls, Oregon**

Some people wear fitness bracelets that tell them how many steps they've taken, how many calories they've consumed, and how well they've slept at night. Fiddleford McGucket wore one that measured his heart rate, blood pressure, and adrenaline levels.

It connected to his phone. Every so often his phone called Stanford Pines with a personal message—always at night. And always when that call came in, Stanford's phone rang with a Morse code beeping: dot-dot-dot dash-dash-dash dot-dot-dot.

Roused from sleep at 12:45 AM, Stanford answered his computer phone. He couldn't seem to get in the habit of calling it a cell phone—though technically, since it connected through a satellite, not a cellular, network, it was a mobile phone. To Ford, though, it was, and would always be, a computer phone.

He saw the text: _Help me. F.M._

That was automated, too. Stanford got out of bed, hurried out of his pajamas—odd, but one thing he'd sorely missed when lost in the Multiverse was sleepwear, along with oranges—and got into jeans and pullover.

"Fiddleford?" Lorena asked from the bed.

"Yes. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Give me two minutes. I'll go with you."

"I love you."

"I must love you," she said with humor in her voice. She pulled on some clothes and tied back her hair. "Let's go."

At the garage door, she grabbed his arm. "Here."

He took the raincoat from her. "Oh, yes. It's raining, isn't it?"

"Hard, from the sound." She wore a raincoat herself and carried an umbrella. "I'll drive." She tossed the umbrella into the back seat of the Lincoln as Ford got into the passenger seat and fastened his seatbelt. She opened the garage door by remote and backed out. The rain streaked silver in the headlights. She did a three-point turn and drove down the winding driveway, then turned left.

The traffic lights in town, all four of them, were blinking yellow at this hour of the night. No traffic. She eased through them, then drove up the hill to the McGucket house, formerly the Northwest mansion. Tate McGucket stood at the open door under the protection of the porte-cochere. "Thanks for coming," he said.

"I promised your father," Ford said.

Fiddleford sat up in his bed, hyperventilating. His wife Mayellen sat on the edge of the bed beside him, rubbing his back. "Here's Ford now," she said as Ford and Lorena came in.

"You can leave us," Ford told her. "I'll take care of him."

"Come to the kitchen," Mayellen said to Lorena as she rose. "We'll have a cup of tea."

Ford pulled a chair to the bedside and took Fiddleford's hand. His friend squeezed hard.

"I'm here," Ford said. "You can hear me, can't you?"

An even harder squeeze.

"Tell me who you are," Ford said quietly.

"I'm uh—I'm Fiddleford Hadron McGucket."

"Where are you?"

"I—I dunno. I—am I home? Not the junkyard?"

"You're in your own home, your own bed. Remember?"

"I—I'm tryin'."

"Listen. You know who I am. Tell me my name."

Fiddleford's breathing seemed somewhat easier. "I—you—you're Stanford Filbrick Pines. My, my, my lab partner in Advanced Physics—"

"That was a while back," Ford said.

His calm words elicited a smile from his old friend—a good sign. "I reckon you're right."

"Tell me where you were born."

"Possum Fork, Tennessee," Fiddleford said. "On Long Branch Road. The McGucket farm. Everybody knows us."

"And what did you study at Backupsmore University?"

"Um—engineering. Mainly. But I had a quadruple major in chemistry, physics, engineering, and quantum studies."

"What did you plan to do with your college degree?"

Fiddleford frowned in concentration. "To—to go into business. I invented a compact computermajig that could be put on a desktop or even made smaller and carried around like a little old briefcase. I moved to, um, Palo Alto California. I set up a lab and workshop in my garage—it's comin' back."

Ford walked his friend through the rest of the story. He grimaced with shame and with a shared sense of horror as Fiddleford talked about the terrors he'd encountered after moving to Gravity Falls to work for Ford as a lab and research assistant.

Lord, there had been so many of them.

The crashed interstellar spaceship—mind-blowing that it even existed. And exploring it with Ford had been gut-wrenching—so much advanced tech, so many bodies of the original crew, so much that challenged his understanding.

"Shifty," Fiddleford said, trembling. "Is it—is it still around, Ford?"

"Gone now," Ford assured his friend.

"It—what did it do to me?"

Ford sighed. This happened twice a year, sometimes three. He had learned that just reassurance wasn't enough to bring poor Fiddleford through these panic attacks. They had to confront the truth together, hard though that was. If they didn't it took Fiddleford a week or more of mental suffering to steady himself again.

"Shifty locked you in a closet," Ford said. "He transformed into a duplicate of you—trying to worm secrets from me so he could get loose and take over the town. I suspected something was wrong, because he couldn't really imitate a human personality. I locked him up, set you free, and we froze him. Remember?"

"Yeah . . . yeah," Fiddleford said. "In the bunker. We used th' alien tech to create the bunker. 'Cause we was expectin' the Apocalypse."

"That's right," Ford said.

"That there—what was it? Big old monster of a thing? Horribobble eyes?"

"That was the Gremloblin," Ford said.

"Oh, my God, it looked me in th' eyes and scared me worse than—I thought my heart was gonna explodify!"

"We've learned how to protect ourselves against it now," Ford said. "And as long as no one goes into its territory, it's harmless. It projects fear through its eyes, but that's its natural defense. You wanted to forget."

"Yeah. Yeah. I did. That's why I made the memory eraser, wasn't it? So I wouldn't remember. But now I do."

Stanford said, "Do you remember my niece and nephew?"

"Uh—Dipper. And Mabel. They—they give me back my memories. Oh, Lordy, I created the Society of the Blind Eye! Ivan and them—I done wrong, Ford!"

"The Society is disbanded," Ford said. "We made mistakes. You and I both."

"Ford, it's wrong to try an' fergit the bad. It's plumb wrong. I was jist too blind t'see it. Now I know."

"Is the Gremloblin going to hurt you anymore?"

"Naw . . . naw. We scared it, I reckon. It was protectin' itself. But it wasn't the only thing that got to me. So much scared me so bad. The lake monster. Lord, that terrified me. My pore wife. About the time we got married, I started to get so scared, Ford. And our baby come along, and—I was an awful daddy."

"Tate lives with you now," Ford said. "He and his wife. Remember?"

"It—it's comin' back."

Fiddleford's breathing was close to normal. Ford said, "You must've had a really bad dream."

"Yeah, reckon I did. I'm sorry, Ford, I git these spells—"

"It's all right, old friend. I'm not going to leave you alone. How about some chamomile tea?"

"That sounds right nice. With maybe a spoonful of peach brandy?"

Ford smiled and reached for the bedside phone. He hit the intercom button for the kitchen—a relic of the days when Mr. and Mrs. Northwest had a staff of servants at their beck and call. Mayellen answered it: "How is he?"

"He's better. Could you please bring him a cup of chamomile tea? With a little glug of peach brandy?"

"He must be better," said Mayellen. "I'll be up in just a minute."

Ford hung up. In the bed, Fiddleford stroked his beard—no longer waist-length, no longer a birds'-nest tangle—and said in mild surprise. "Dang! I done forgot how old I got to be. Did I hurt anybody? I was plumb crazy, wasn't I?"

"You had some trouble," Ford told him. "You built some amazing robots. But you never seriously hurt anybody."

"I never meant to," Fiddleford said fretfully. "I remember bein' so mad when some of my friends didn't come to my retirement party when I gave up th' electronics store, 'count of my havin' so much trouble rememberin' back then. I think I built a revenge bot."

"I wasn't here for that," Ford said, his heart sinking. They were coming to the worst of it. That would take a lot of effort on Fiddleford's part and a lot of patience on Ford's—patience and penance.

Because, after all, Fiddleford's madness hadn't been his own fault.

That had all been on Ford.

* * *

Mayellen brought two cups of tea. With a weak smile, Fiddleford said, "Thank you, Sugar."

She kissed his cheek. "You'll feel better after you've had a cup," she said. She glanced at Ford, who gave her a discreet nod. It always took at least an hour, sometimes longer, but Fiddleford was coming back again. Back to his right mind.

He sipped his own cup of tea and tasted the brandy. "Uh—did we get the right cups?" he asked.

Fiddleford tried his and smacked his lips. "I reckon so. This'n's got a slug of peach brandy in it. That takes me right back. Funny how smells an' tastes do that. Peach brandy. My grandpappy back in Tennessee distilled it. Learnt my first chemistry from Granpappy McGucket. Peach brandy an' muscadine wine. Ever had that?"

"I don't think so," Ford said.

Fiddleford frowned, not in irritation but in remembering. "Sweet. Got th' good sun in it. Warms your belly and cheers your mind. The peach brandy, it kinda calms you down. Grandpappy knew his stuff."

"He must have been a fine man."

"Yeah, he was. None of us had much book learnin'. I was lucky, Ford. Had a high-school counselor—Mr. Shirley, his name was. I told him one day, I was a freshman I remember, that I aimed to drop out and work at the garage my cousin run, and he said he'd whup my butt if I did. He says, 'You're going to college.' I didn't think I could. We was pore farmers. But my grades were good. Heck, I even aced English." He grinned. "When I put my mind to it, I can speak proper, nay, even eloquent, English. Don't seem natural, though." He sipped the tea. "God bless Mr. Shirley. I don't know how he did it, but he rounded up a passel of scholarships for me. Got me through college in Tennessee, and that got me a fellowship to Backupsmore."

The two old friends drank their tea in silence. Then, with a sigh, Fiddleford put his cup on the saucer and handed them to Ford, who put them on the bedside table. "We gotta talk it out, don't we?"

"If you feel up to it," Ford said.

"The gol-danged Portal," Fiddleford murmured. "Ford, you're my friend, but that was wrong. You done wrong. I'm sorry, but you did."

Ford's head sank. "You're right," he said. "I should have listened to you. It's my fault, Fiddleford. I'm so sorry."

"Well," Fiddleford said, "I got a heap of patents while I was yore assistant. You never took one penny of the proceeds. I gotta thank you for that. But the Portal—I had a bad feelin' about it from the git-go. Then—we tested it out." His fingers clutched the bedclothes spasmodically. "What happened? How did I—"

"The test dummy's tether," Ford said. "It snarled your ankle somehow."

Fiddleford rubbed his forehead. "Yeah. Yeah. It's comin' back. I got yanked up and damn near pulled into th' Portal. And for what seemed like years I seen—horrible things! That damn Bill Cipher—devils and demons. And I understood they meant the end of th' world—"

"Think," Ford said. "Yes, you're right. Bill Cipher. The triangle man. My so-called Muse. You warned me about him, Fiddleford. I should have listened to you. My pride and arrogance—yes, you were right all along. I apologize again. I did something terrible to you."

Fiddleford lay back against the pillows and took deep, regular breaths. "You didn't mean no harm," he said softly. "I think I told you—didn't I?—told you that I forgive you."

"You did," Ford said. "I didn't deserve it, but you did. Thank you, my friend."

"Didn't we fight him? Yeah. We did. I remember. I turnt yore house into a slam-bang robomajigger! You and yore brother and niece and nephew. We kicked old Cipher's butt, didn't we?"

"We did," Ford said, smiling. "Sent his army back to the Nightmare Realm, reduced him to a powerless shadow. And we couldn't have done it without you, Fiddleford."

"I'm a dang professor!" Fiddleford said. "You started your college at last—and you made me a professor—how bad was I this time, Ford?"

"Middling," Ford said. "You've been worse. I think you're all right now."

"Funny," Fiddleford said. "Used to be, when I had these spells, the hardest part was Cipher. Scared the wits out of me just thinking about him. Lately, though—it's not so hard on me. I reckon maybe before I die, I might just get to be settled in my right mind."

"You're already in your right mind," Ford said. "Most of the time. It's just when these nightmares come. Then you need a little help."

"I remember now," Fiddleford said. "You got married to Lorena from the library. Wonderful woman. When I was—sick, she used to let me come into the library to feel warm and safe. Even in horrible weather, even when the library should've been closed. More than once in the wintertime, she let me throw my sleeping bag into the furnace room and stay there of a freezing night. And I remember how Dipper and Mabel helped free Mayellen that time—and how y'all got Tate to forgive me—Ford, I'm sorry I'm so much dang trouble."

"You're not," Ford said. "Not at all. Fiddleford, for years you were my best friend. I got so wrapped up in trying to push the boundary of my knowledge that I forgot that. I listened to the lies of Bill Cipher, not the truth you were telling me. I should have trusted you."

Fiddleford extended his hand. Ford clasped it. "Ford," he said, "come hell or high water, I trust you. I hope you trust me now."

"Now and from now on," Ford said. "How are you?"

"Easy in my mind," Fiddleford said. "Sounds like it's rainin'."

"It's pouring," Ford said.

"What time is it?"

Ford glanced at the bedside alarm clock. "Almost two o'clock."

"Hate to ask this, but could you stay a mite longer?"

"Surely. I'm going to tell Lorena to go on home, though."

"I'll get Tate to drive you home later," Fiddleford said.

"That's kind of you."

"I think I'd like to go to the balcony room," Fiddleford said. "Set and watch the rain outside the window. Somethin' mighty soothin' about being warm and dry inside and lookin' out at the rain."

He got up and pulled on his pants. Ford told Mayellen to go to bed and Lorena to go home. Tate turned in.

Then the two old friends pulled up chairs before the second-floor bow window that looked out over the back yard. When they turned off the lights, they could see the rain spiking up ankle-high on the balcony, could hear its steady sound.

Ford knew they would sit there until dawn, not talking, not needing to talk. Two old friends who'd been through bad times and good, who had no need of words to feel comfortable together.

Two men who, finally, held and cherished each other's trust.


	3. Lake Gravity Falls

**Trust Is What You Earn**

**(August 2, 2017)**

* * *

**3: Lake Gravity Falls**

Tuesday was a hectic sales day—not a record, but very healthy, with two buses full of pre-teens from two rival summer camps just to liven up the day. The rivalry was of the sort termed "bitter."

Mabel had a fine time hauling out the first-aid kit, patching up scrapes, and attending to bloody noses (though Dipper still wondered where she'd found that nurse's cap). And, contrary to narrative convention, no two rival campers discovered they had a lot in common (though they did) and thus did not become buddies, secret pals, or even frenemies.

"That was a good day," Mabel said at dinner time.

Which was nice, because earlier that morning she had been all prepared to be gloomy and sullen for the rest of the week. The next day, Teek and his mom were flying to Atlanta so he could do the orientation days at GCAF, the film-arts college he would be attending beginning at the end of the month. Mrs. O'Grady was paying her own way; Teek got a huge discount, thanks to his scholarship, provided they flew Delta Air Lines, which was headquartered in Atlanta.

"You could have gone along," Dipper told Mabel at one point. "Teek said it would be OK with him."

"Yeah, but I don't want to," Mabel moaned. "He'd think I'd be watching him and getting jealous every time he saw one of those cute Georgia—what do they have in Georgia?"

"Humidity?" Dipper asked.

"No, peaches. Right? Those cute Georgia peaches. Those cute, humid Georgia peaches. I hate them already."

"Oh, come on," Dipper said. "Why would he even think that?"

"Because it's true!" Mabel said, waving her arms for emphasis. "Wouldn't Wendy get all jealous and clingy if girls started thinking you were cute?"

"I . . . can't imagine that," Dipper said.

Mabel gave a definite nod. "Yeah, 'cause it's never going to happen, but if it did and they did, she would."

Well. That was nice to know, whatever it meant.

Anyway, the weather had cleared around noon, the sun had come out, and then right after work, Teek spent a good half hour saying goodbye to Mabel because he had to go home and pack. The flight would leave early the next morning, and he and his mom were staying in an airport hotel overnight to avoid a long, sleepy drive to Portland in rush hour traffic. "I'll be back Sunday morning," he said. "I'll come over around noon and we can do something, OK?"

"You better," Mabel said. "Uh—because I'd like to . . . hear . . . all about what your school's like. And also, I'll miss you."

He stroked her hair. "Yeah, I'll miss you too."

"But I'll miss you more."

"I . . . don't think so."

Enough of the dialogue. It went on for a tedious while and was a little young for Teek, who was eighteen, and Mabel, who was about to be. However, she classified it as banter, and it did leave her in a better frame of mind.

Grunkle Stan showed up after dinner. "Hey, you two," he said, "We got a couple hours of daylight left. I want you to come to the lake with me and help me bail out my boat. It rained pretty hard last night, and my automatic pump needs repairing."

"Want to come, Wendy?" Dipper asked.

Wendy shook her head. "Thanks, dude, but I promised Dad I'd spend the evening with the family. And I want to thank him personally for building that fence for us. You guys go and have a good time. And don't forget tomorrow morning at ten."

"I won't," Dipper said, grinning.

"Be sure to bring the consent form, dude."

"I'll bring it."

"You scared?"

"Um—anxious," Dipper said. "But not scared."

"Good man."

When Wendy had kissed him and left, Stan growled, "What was that all about?"

"Nothing," Dipper said.

Mabel shoved him. "Tell Grunkle Stan!"

Dipper rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh, Wendy and I are taking like a half-hour off work and going to the City Hall tomorrow morning at ten to get uh, our, you know—our marriage license."

"Big deal," Stan said, not looking impressed. "Routine paperwork. Take cash. Ya know they'll nick you fifty, sixty bucks for it."

"I know, I've got the cash," Dipper said.

Stan gave him a skeptical look, as though he were sure Dipper and Wendy would forget _something_ important. "And what did Wendy mean about the consent thingummy?"

Mabel giggled. "Dipper had to get a notarized form from Dad. He had to bring a note from home! Because he's so young!"

"Cut it out," Dipper muttered. "If I was eighteen, I wouldn't need it, but I'm still seventeen, so—Dad and Mom had to sign a notarized consent form so we can get the license."

"But you'll be eighteen when you tie the knot," Stan said. "Big day _is_ on your birthday, right?"

"Yes, but to get married we have to have a license first, and I can't get the license on my birthday because there's a three-day waiting period after you get it before you can be married, so—" he shrugged.

"But on the other hand, the license is good for sixty days," Mabel said.

"Fair enough," Stan said. "But this ain't getting my boat pumped. Let's hit the road."

* * *

Stan's leaky old wooden boat had been traded in for a small cabin cruiser—smaller than Soos's _Cool Dad,_ and, since Stan and Ford now owned an ocean-going vessel already christened the _Stan O'War II,_ the little lake craft had been named _Official Business._ "That way," Stan said, grinning, "if I want to dodge calls, I just set a greeting to say I can't be reached 'cause I'm on official business."

"Pretty smart, Grunkle Stan!" Mabel said.

That afternoon the main cabin had three inches of water sloshing around in it, and that would mean mold and trouble later on unless they removed it. The electric pump worked if you started it manually—it was just the automatic switch that was on the fritz. They turned on the pump, and that took care of most of the water, but then a wet vacuum had to deal with the little that was left, and Stan sprayed everything with a mold retardant and disinfectant and had Dipper and Mabel mop up the last dampness.

They still had an hour of daylight, so Stan said they might as well take the boat out for a short spin to make sure everything was working. "We just won't go in the cabin," he said. "It'll take a couple days for the disinfectant fumes to air out in there."

Mabel got to steer. They circumnavigated Scuttlebutt Island. On the far side, Dipper cautioned Mabel not to go further to the apparent island called Round Head. It was called Round Head for a reason, and once it had come uncomfortably close to eating Dipper and Mabel.

Stan took the wheel and headed the boat back toward the dock but then killed the engine and dropped the anchor. "Let's just sit on the water and watch the sun go down from here," he said. He popped a Rimrock beer, offered one to Dipper and Mabel—Dipper turned it down and had a ginger ale instead, but Mabel took a beer, which she didn't open. "What's the deal?" asked Stan.

"I wash my hair with it," Mabel said. "Beer gives it great body."

"So long as you don't drink regular conditioner," Stan said.

"Who told you?" Mabel asked.

"I don't want to know," Stan said.

It was peaceful on the lake. A small flotilla of six ducks paddled past, their calls sounding like a group of little old ladies laughing. "Here, ducky, ducky!" called Mabel, leaning over the rail. "They're so cute! Look at the babies!"

The four babies were over half grown. Dipper shaded his eyes and made out the colors. The drake had a deep green head and white sides, the mother duck a reddish-brown head and pearly gray back. "Mergansers," Dipper said.

Mabel sounded surprised: "I thought they were ducks."

"They _are_ ducks. Wild ducks," Dipper explained. "These are common mergansers. There are four or five different species. These nest in hollow trees."

"What are you, an Audubon guy?" Stan asked.

"He gets it from Wendy," Mabel said. "Anything she knows about wildlife and woods and stuff, Dipper knows, too."

"Nothing wrong with that," Dipper said.

"Didn't say there was." Stan drank about half his beer. "Look, kids, Sheila's been hasslin' me, and I guess she has a point. It was pretty mean of me to fool you and Wendy that way about the house. What I'm trying to say is—I apologize, OK? Don't make a big deal out of it or anything, but I'm sorry I played that trick on you."

"It was funny!" Mabel said. "I thought we were really breaking into the joint! I loved it!"

"That's OK, Grunkle Stan," Dipper said. "It was really great of you and Ford to do that for us. It's going to make college a lot easier for all three of us."

"Yeah, yeah, but the place is an investment, too, don't forget that," Stan said. For a moment he was silent. "Hey, kids, you remember that day when you were twelve? The Feds had me in custody, and you guys and Soos got into the Portal room and were about to shut it off?"

Dipper nodded.

Stan wouldn't quite meet his gaze. "Uh. Well, now you know why I got there just before you shut it down and begged you not to do it. The machine had located Ford in the dimensions or whatever, and it was about to open a gateway and bring him back home. I couldn't tell you that before it happened—I wasn't sure I'd been smart enough to fix it right, and if the Portal opened and Ford wasn't there, that would have made thirty years of work worth nothing. Plus, there was a small chance it could have ended the world. Anyway—Mabel, sweetheart, I don't think I ever told you how grateful I am that you trusted me and let the Portal open."

"Oh, I knew you couldn't be a bad guy," Mabel said softly.

"And Dipper—I understand why you didn't trust me, OK? And that's fine. You acted on what you believed to be true. I just want to say—well, no hard feelings, and you oughta always do what you think is right, regardless. We good?"

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you," Dipper said. "Mabel, I'm also sorry I yelled at you for not shutting the Portal down. I—you were right to listen to your heart. I promise, Grunkle Stan, I'll trust you from now on."

"That's fine, long as we don't play cards for money," Stan said with a grin. "In that case, all bets are off. Wait, that came out wrong."

They sat there as the sun sank, talking about old times—their first fishing trip, that time when Mabel and Stan had rescued Dipper and Ford from Probabilator, the struggle Stan had to recover his memory after Weirdmageddon—

"That didn't end in just a few days," Stan said. "Pumpkin, you jump-started my memory with your scrapbook, but you may not know that Ford helped me fill in childhood and teen years and then up to when I accidentally shoved him into the Portal. You and Dipper then got me through what happened that summer, but thirty years—all the time I was Mr. Mystery—stayed mostly a blur at first. Then Soos reminded me of the last ten years. And then it took like a year before I talked to enough people in the town to jog my memory about how I took over the Shack and all. Amnesia's a hell of a thing. Promise me that if McGucket ever makes more of those memory guns, you guys won't use 'em on yourselves or anybody else."

"That's a deal," Mabel said.

"Yeah," Dipper agreed. "Trust us on this."

"Be dark soon," Stan said, firing up the motor. Weigh anchor, Dipper."

They puttered back into the dock and moored the boat.

"Gonna be different after this summer, huh?" Stan asked as they got into the Stanleymobile, Dipper and Mabel in the back seat.

"It sure will be," Dipper said. "College is a big step."

"He's worried about it," Mabel confided.

"He worries about everything," Stan said.

"Well—marriage, too. That's a life changer," Dipper said.

"C'mon," Stan told him. "You and Wendy—you guys can't _help_ but be happy. Plus, Mabel will be right there in the house with you. And you'll have the dog. And any time you want, you're welcome to stay at the Shack or at our house. It won't be so bad. We'll be closer than when you were goin' to high school."

That was a point.

After a few minutes, Dipper glanced at his sister. Mabel had been softly giggling. "What?" Dipper asked.

"Oh, I was just thinking about marriage being a life changer," she said. "For you and Wendy, the biggest change is you'll be sleeping in the same bed every night."

Stan wheeled into the Shack parking lot. "Mabel," he said, "don't knock it. Trust me."

* * *

The End


End file.
